The Halloween Homophobe

Bloomington, October 1983

When I was growing up, my church deemed alcohol the worst possible sin, worse than murder or reading the Sunday newspaper or talking to a Catholic.  We couldn't eat food that once contained alcohol, like "beer batter shrimp."  We couldn't set foot in a bar, a restaurant that sold alcohol, or a grocery store with a beer section.  Some Nazarenes wouldn't let the doctor swab their arms with alcohol before giving them a shot.

 I've overcome many of the strictures of my childhood, but to this day I can't bring myself to drink anything alcoholic.  I've never had wine.  I've had only one and a half cans of beer in my life.

Why one and a half?

It was 1983, my second year at Indiana University, and my friend Viju and I had just moved into an apartment together.  On the Saturday before Halloween, we invited several of our gay friends and their dates to a party. We provided homoerotic snacks like penis-shaped cookies, plus Cokes and Sprites (and some of the guys brought beer).  We planned some double-entendre laden party games, an erotic Chamber of Horrors in Viju's bedroom, and finally the Halloween costume contest at Bullwinkle's.

I was going as Pan, the Greek god, with shaggy leggings and horns, Viju was a cop, and Jimmy the Bodybuilder on Crutches said he was coming as a vampire,  Joseph from the Gay Student Alliance was a shirtless Zorro, Terry from Eigenmann Hall was a drag queen witch, Mark the optometry major was Superman, and his date, a shy but extremely cute undergrad named Scott, was a gymnast.

Jimmy took a long time to get up the stairs, so I heard him coming, and opened the door to say hello.

My jaw dropped.  His  "date" was his friend Tony, who was straight,  and didn't know that Jimmy was gay.

Apparently Jimmy hadn't realized that it was a gay party.

In the 1980s, you simply did not come out, to anyone, except maybe your family and closest childhood friends, and then only after extensive preparation.  But in a moment a straight guy would be in our tiny living room with six gay men who weren't closeting their behavior.

Thinking fast, I yelled at Tony, "Where's your girlfriend?"

Straight guy! Closet time! Mark and his date, Scott, immediately slid apart.   Joseph grabbed the tray of penis-shaped cookies and rushed them into the kitchen, Terry took off his wig and earrings to transform his costume from witch to Uncle Fester, and Viju ran to slam the door to the erotic Chamber of Horrors. Someone turned on It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.  



Tony helped Jimmy through the door.  "I don't have a girlfriend," he said, glancing around the room, probably thinking "whoa, sausage fest."  "I was hoping to meet some girls here."

Glaring at Jimmy for being such a dope, I said,  "Sure, sure.  We're going trick-or-treating in the girls' dorm later."

You're probably thinking: why bother to closet ourselves?  It was seven against one.  What could he possibly do?

We soon found out.


Tony asked to use the bathroom.  I pointed the way.

A moment later, I heard his shrill voice: "Boomer, get in here!"

Apparently he had opened the wrong door.  He was standing in my bedroom, where there was a replica of Michelangelo's David on my desk, and the wall by the bed plastered with pictures of naked men torn out of In Touch and Mandate. 

"Where are the girls?" he asked.

"What girls?"

For a moment he just stared, speechless.  Then the tirade began.  "Are you trying to tell me that you're queer?  Don't you know that this lifestyle spreads diseases?  Don't you know that God destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah because they were homos?"

"Um...."

Suddenly he became more conciliatory.  "Look, it's probably not too late.  You could rethink your decision."

Rethink your decision!  I was already angry with him for forcing my party into the closet, and this was the last straw. "Oh, gee," I yelled, "I had no idea.  Thanks for the heads-up!  I'll turn back to straight right away!"  I tore down some of the pictures from my wall, wadded them up, and threw them at his feet.

Then I ran back into the living room.  "Boobs!" I grunted.  "Boobs and football and...um, beer!"  I grabbed a can of beer, popped the top, and guzzled some.  It tasted horrible.

Tony followed, no longer conciliatory. "Did you guys know that Boomer is a homo?  He probably wants to take you back into his little chamber of horrors and do nasty, perverted things to you."

Um...yes, I was counting on it," Joseph said.

"You're queer?" Tony asked.  "Maybe you're all queer! Did you invite me and Jimmy up here to try to turn us that way, too?"

Of course, we should have shown him the door.  But we were not "out and proud."  We were coming from the dull despair of the 1970s Midwest, where gay people, when mentioned at all, were portrayed as utterly despicable.  Some of us were still working through feelings of guilt and shame, the nagging doubts: What if we really are sick?  What if God really does hate us?

"Count me out,  I just turned straight," I said, roiling with rage. "Boobs!  Football!  Beer!  Hey, turn the game on! This show sucks -- Charlie Brown is a fag!"  I drained my beer -- it still tasted terrible -- and started another.

Viju glared at Jimmy, "Hey, psychology major, maybe you should tell your buddy something?"

Jimmy hung his head.

"Oh, no, not Jimmy, too!" Tony exclaimed.  "He's handicapped!  Couldn't you perverts leave him alone?  Stick to the schoolyards!"

"Hey, I've never done it in a schoolyard!  Schoolbus, maybe!"  The room was starting to spin.  Was this what it felt like to be drunk?  "When I was six I married the boy next door."

Tony ignored me.  "How can you do those...those disgusting things?" he continued, this time addressing Mark and Scott.  "Do you hate yourself that much, or are you trying to get back at your parents, or do you just hate God?"


Scott the shy undergrad looked like he was about to cry.

Enough was enough!  I walked over to Tony and calmly poured the rest of my beer on his head.

That's why I've had only 1 1/2 cans of beer in my life.

Surprisingly, Jimmy and Tony stayed friends.  It wasn't Jimmy's fault, after all, that he had been "brainwashed" by a pack of "perverts."

And as my reward, I got to spend 7 minutes in the Chamber of Horrors with Scott the shy undergrad.

See also: Sharing the Optometrist's Boyfriend; Joseph and I Get Intimate in a Haunted House.

The Gay Psychic Angel

Wilton Manors, October 2002

I was teaching Sociology of Religion at Florida Atlantic University, and I invited representatives from various religious groups to speak to the class: Pentecostal, Eastern Orthodox, Buddhist, Muslim, Neo-Pagan.  For the New Age, I contacted the Center for Spiritual Living in Fort Lauderdale, and they sent me Raphael.

At least, I assumed that's why he and a friend appeared at my house one evening, and said "Hi, I'm Raphael, and this is Jordan. You called for us?"

I stood in the doorway, speechless, stunned.  Raphael  was a Cute Young Thing, in his twenties, a few inches shorter than me, with a nondescript physique but a face I can only describe as angelic: bright, shining, ever-smiling, mesmerizing.  I can't find any pictures of men that even approach his brilliance.  Jordan was a Cute Young Thing, too, but I can't remember what he looked like.

Finally I managed to stammer, "Hi...hi, nice to meet you."  I held out my hand.  Only Jordan shook it.

I invited them into the house and offered them sodas.  Raphael asked for his with a straw.

Then I noticed that his arms were hanging down limply from his shoulders.  They were paralyzed!


Jordan chose an easy chair and buried himself in a Tom Clancy novel.  Raphael began talking, I assumed about the tenets of his religion.  It was standard New Age stuff --  matter is an illusion; all of life is spirit; we have lived many times before.  But I was fascinated.

"Was I gay in all of my past lives?" I asked, surprised that I had come out so easily.

"Probably not. We're all gay, straight, male, female.  But we're surrounded by the same people in every life, Want me to check?"

"Sure."

"Press my hand against your Svadhishthana Chakra -- your abdomen."

I lifted up my shirt, took his hand -- surprisingly, it was warm, not cold -- and pressed it flat against my abs.  "This guy just wants to feel me up," I thought.

"No, that would be the Muladhara Chakra," Raphael said with a bright laugh.  "Your crotch."

Had he just read my mind?

"What does touching that tell you?" I asked.  "How much I like you?"

Raphael began to blush a little.  "Ok, I've got something.  I see you as an old man.  Very old, wearing overalls.  You are fascinated by a new invention."  He paused.  "Um...called a magic lantern.  I never heard of that -- do  you know what it is?"

"Early films in the 1890s were called Magic Lantern Shows," I said, shocked.  But then my inner skeptic kicked in.  There were posters from old movies on the wall -- obviously he surmised that I was a movie buff in this life.




I didn't care.  Raphael was the hottest guy I had ever seen!  I couldn't take my eyes off him.  I had to get him alone, away from the stern, Tom Clancy-reading Jordan.  "Can you read my future, too?"

"Yes, but for that, I need to touch an object of yours, something that you've handled often."

"Sure...um...let's go into the bedroom, and I'll find something."

I was still holding his hand.  I led him into the bedroom, and pressed his hand around the Kensington Runestone that I got in Alexandria, Minnesota when I was a kid.  "I see that you travel quite a bit," Raphael said.  "I've never been outside the country."

"Someday I'll take you to Paris," I said.  Then I felt my face burning.  I had said too much.

"You're going to Paris yourself in a few months, I see."

"Yeah, every year if I can."

"You'll get an opportunity there.  A job offer, maybe. But don't take it."

"Are you kidding?  I'd give anything to live in Europe!"

"No, you won't be happy there.  We need you here in America."


"We?"  It was time to make my move!  I carefully removed the Kensington Runestone from his hand, then wrapped my arm around him and kissed him.

It was a warm, innocent kiss, like they show on first dates on tv.  But it didn't stay innocent.  I became more aggressive, pressing our bodies together, pressing my hand against his crotch, unbuttoning his shirt...

His body stiffened, and he pulled his face away. "Wait, wait," he murmured.  "It's too soon."

"Oh...sorry," I said, heavily embarrassed.  "I thought..."

"It's ok."  I helped him button his shirt back up.   "We'll see each other again.  Let me give you my phone number.  Do you have a piece of paper?"

I put a scrap of paper on the desk, and watched while he took a pen in his mouth and deftly wrote down the number.

Then he kissed me again, briefly, and yelled out to Jordan that it was time to go.

Alone in my room, staring at the phone number, I started thinking.

1. I was interested in the paranormal, but did I really want to date a professional psychic?

2. Raphael's arms didn't work.  He must do things with his mouth and his feet, with Jordan as supplemental assistance.  I tried to imagine how he dressed, ate, brushed his teeth, went to the bathroom.  And as the boyfriend, the supplemental assistance would be my job.



I didn't call the next day.  Or the next.  Or the next.  The phone number stayed on my desk, staring up at me.

On Sunday, I planned to go to the services at the Center for Spiritual Living and surprise Raphael.  But I lost my nerve.

The phone number stayed on my desk for a long time.  Then one day it was gone.  Maybe it evaporated.

It's been 12 years, and I'm still kicking myself for letting the Psychic get away.

Well, maybe in my next life.

By the way:

1. Raphael was right: a few months later, in Europe, I met a guy at the Horseman's Club who invited me to stay.  Except it was a small town in the Netherlands, not Paris.

2. I didn't realize it until later, but Yuri was in his room the whole time, and he didn't hear a thing.

3. In the Catholic Church, the archangel Raphael is the patron of the handicapped.  His feast day is October 24th.  Just before Halloween.

My Student Steals My Boyfriend

Bloomington, December 1983

When I was in graduate school at Indiana University, there were 30,000 students wandering around on the 2,000 acre campus, but still, everybody knew Jimmy, a graduate student in psychology.  He was a familiar sight, tromping across the campus on his forearm crutches.

 Jimmy had cerebral palsy, so his legs didn't work well, although he could walk slowly without crutches inside the house.  Also his hands were a little stiff.

Do you know what happens to a guy who doesn't use his legs much?  His chest, shoulders, and biceps overcompensate.  He becomes "cut" in bodybuilder lingo, a pale hard slab of marble.  Incredible.

One night in September 1983, while Viju and I were cruising at Bullwinkle's,  he came in.  I yelled "Score!" (or the 1980s equivalent).

Jimmy  invited me back to the terrible house he shared with two other psychology grad students, who hadn't cleaned the place since 1978.  There was a half-full carton of milk on the kitchen table that expired six months ago.

Sometimes we went to the apartment I shared with Viju, but not often: it was up a flight of stairs, and the only way he could get up and down was to be carried.

We dated through the fall semester, going to dinners and movies and to the bars.  Sometimes we went into Indianapolis to the bars or museums, to see Pippin and Godspell.

Jimmy had just come out a few days before we met in Bullwinkle's, so none of his family and friends knew that he was gay.

His best friend Tony found out when Jimmy invited him to our Halloween party, and for some reason he went into my bedroom and saw that my wall was emblazoned with pictures of hot guys torn from magazines.

"Where are the pictures of girls?" Tony asked, dumfounded.

He didn't handle it well.  First he yelled at Jimmy for hanging out with a "pervert," and when Jimmy said that he was gay, too, he accused me of brainwashing him.  When he discovered that there were other gay guys at the party, he ran screaming off into the night.

Jimmy helped us decide if Professor Singer was gay by going along on Viju's  intel-gathering mission.

At Thanksgiving he invited Viju and me to his parents' house in Crawfordsville, but to avoid another scene, we played it cool.  I even responded to a question about "my girlfriend" with a story about a tall blonde soccer player from Iceland.

On December 3rd, a little over a week later, when Jimmy told me: "We didn't plan on it, but I fell in love with another guy.  We're moving in together."

What guy?

Steve (I forgot the last name.)

One of my students!

Grad students at Indiana teach their own classes, and Steve was one of the back-of-the-class students in Intro to Literature, getting straight C's, never participating much.  He was sort of cute, but not very muscular.

All I could think was: What chutzpah!  Stealing the professor's boyfriend, just before final grades are due!

And I told my parents that I was bringing someone special home for Christmas.  What would they say?

Steve spent the last week of the semester grinning at me, daring me to give him a vengeance F.

I didn't.  He got a C.   Then he moved into Jimmy's horrible house where nothing was ever cleaned, and I invited Viju home for Christmas.

During the spring semester, I often saw Jimmy tromping across the campus on his crutches.  He looked happy

A Three-Way with Danny and His Boyfriend

Rock Island,  Fall 1969

At the beginning of fourth grade, there was a new boy sitting in the back of the class: short, slim, with brown hair and glasses, wearing a red sweater.

"This is Danny," Miss Johnson told us.  "He just moved to Rock Island this summer.  He wears a leg brace and walks on crutches, so he will need a special friend: someone to carry his books and lunch tray, and play quiet games at recess."

Danny reddened with embarrassment.

"Would anyone like to volunteer to be Danny's special friend?

A boy named Joel shot his hand up. Danny grinned at him -- apparently they had already become "special friends" over the summer.  

But I raised my hand, too, and for some reason Miss Johnson gave me the honor.

Maybe she remembered that I was the new kid last year.  Or maybe she just liked me better.

Joel sat fuming.

For the rest of the day, I carried Danny's books and lunch bag around.  I helped him look up "bats" in the Golden Encyclopedia, showed him the cafeteria and the nurse's office, and carried his lunch tray, while his friend Joel glared at me.

Danny glanced over at him and smiled, enjoying the attention.

The quiet games at recess?  Showing off, doing complicated hanging routines on the monkey bars -- his arms worked fine.

Danny had muscles!  And he was so cute that I couldn't stop looking at him.

Maybe I could get him to come over to my house, and cuddle on the couch while we watched Dark Shadows and Captain Ernie's Cartoon Showboat.  

I didn't get a chance to ask.

Just as the final bell rang, and I started helping Danny collect his books, Joel and Bill approached.  "Danny lives two houses down from me," Joel said firmly.  "I can walk home with him."

"Well -- Miss Johnson told me to."

"That's only in school.  She can't tell us what to do when school is out."

He had a point, but I wasn't going to give up on cuddling that easily.  "You should come home with me," I told Danny.  "I have naked army men, and Mom probably made some cookies."

 Nudity and cookies?  Danny smiled, thinking it over, enjoying having two boys fight over him.

"You have to go up three steps to get in your house," Bill said.  "He'll never make it up."

"Well, we can...."

"And your bedroom is in the basement," he added with a triumphant grin.  He didn't want me hooking up with Danny, either.

So we separated, Danny and Joel heading east, and me and Bill heading north.

The next day, Joel asked for and received the privilege of being Danny's "special friend."

I made one more attempt to hook up with Danny: I invited him to a sleepover at my house, along with Joel, Bill, and Greg the Boy Vampire. Danny didn't come.  I shared my bed with Greg.

At some point during the fourth grade, Danny vanished.  I don't remember when, or why. Presumably he moved: people often started out in Rock Island, because housing was cheap, and then moved to a more prestigious community, like Moline, or Bettendorf, across the river in Iowa.


Joel turned out to be another boy who "liked muscles," my preteen code for "was attracted to boys."  We stayed friends through junior high.  But I never heard anything about Danny.

Until my senior year in high school.

Rock Island, March 1978

On Sundays we spent six hours in church: Sunday school and morning service from 9:30-12:00, and then 6:00 Nazarene Young People's Society, 7:00 evening service and altar call, and 8:30-10:00 Afterglow: a party in the Fellowship Hall with contemporary Gospel music, sodas and snacks, and crazy party games.

It was technically a venue for soul-winning: your unsaved friends, who wouldn't dream of setting foot in a church service, might accept an invitation to a party.

But it was really a Nazarene-sanctioned dating venue.  Boys and girls paired off to go.  You could even bring a non-Nazarene date, in spite of the rule against being "unequally yoked with unbelievers," under the pretense of trying to get him saved.

One evening Cecilia, who lived across the river in Bettendorf, brought an unsaved boy: tall, brown-haired, very muscular upper body.  Wearing a leg brace, but no crutches.  She introduced him as Dan.

Danny, from fourth grade!

I eagerly latched on to him, and peppered him with questions.  He was a senior at Bettendorf High School, planning to go to the University of Iowa and study chemistry. He still did complicated gymnastics, he was in the chess club, and he liked science fiction movies.  He didn't have a girlfriend; this was his first date with Cecilia.

"You know," I said, "Back in fourth grade, I kept trying to get you into my house for a sleepover, but Joel and Bill kept talking you out of it.  I think they were jealous."

He grinned.  "Well, no time like the present.  Why don't you come over Saturday night?  I'll invite Rich, my best friend, and maybe some of the other guys."

"A sleepover in high school? Isn't that a little juvenile?"

"Not if we stay up all night!"

So with our parents' permission, five guys, me, Danny, his younger brother, his boyfriend Rich, and another friend named Steve had a sleepover.

Rather, we stayed up all night, eating pizza, watching Creature Feature, playing Risk and ping pong, doing chemistry experiments, and talking on his CB radio.  

No cuddling or groping, but some incidental touching, and a sausage sighting: Danny and I both had to go to the bathroom at the same time, and he suggested we share.  Average size, nicely shaped.

Danny lived about 10 miles away, and the spring of my senior year in high school was very busy -- and very emotionally intense -- so we didn't hook up again.

I wonder if he's writing a blog right now, and talking about the sausage sighting he got of me.

See also: The Hookup at the Sleepover.

How Blind Guys Handle Sausage Sightings

Dayton, March 2006

In gay communities, there is heavy competition for men who are disabled: blind, deaf, on crutches, in a wheelchair.    

Maybe being physically different makes you stand out in the crowd and seem more attractive.

Or guys fantasize about being your "knight in shining armor," protecting you from the bad things in the world.

Or they are hung up over their minor imperfection, such as belly fat or acne scars, and they believe that you will be more accepting. 

But however many guys clamor to go home with you, few are willing to stick around the next day, begin a romantic relationship, and participate in your daily struggles with accessibility and visibility.

So disabled guys tend to be a little leery of romantic overtures.  They may even try to scare you off by describing their daily maintenance routine on the first date.

That may have been a problem with my date with Tommy the Blind Guy.

I saw him at the Columbus Metropolitan Community Church one Sunday morning in March 2006:  In his 20s, shorter than me, pale, with short brown hair and a solid, muscular frame -- plus religious!  Three of the five traits I find attractive.  He walked arm-in-arm with a friend, so I assumed he was taken.  But during the coffee hour after church, the friend, Marcus, left him eating doughnuts by himself to cruise someone on the other side of the room.  Therefore, single!

How do you go about cruising someone who can't see you?  I went with a strong handshake and a deep voice, and it worked!

The next weekend, we saw The Libertine (yes, blind people go to movies), followed by dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant.

You would think that Tommy would be tired of being asked questions about "what it's like to be blind," but he told me in detail how he ate, how he shaved, how he found his way around a strange room.

It turned out to be less a date than a lecture from Blind 101 class.  The only interesting part was how he judged a guy's physical characteristics without having to reach out and touch them:

You had a strong handshake, so I knew you had nice biceps.
That doesn't really....

The angle of your voice when we're talking tells me your height and weight.
My height, maybe.  But my weight?
He guessed it within 10 pounds.

I can figure out how hung you are by listening to you in the bathroom.


Doesn't sound possible, but we went into the bathroom, and he did it!  Something to do with the force of the splash.

Other than the few magic tricks, I was a bit bored.

After dinner, we went back to the apartment he shared with Marcus.

Tommy was certainly passionate in the bedroom, but a romantic relationship requires more.  Did this guy have any interests, hobbies?

The gym?  There have been several blind bodybuilders, like Greg Rando  Not really.  I do a little jogging.

Pets?  Seeing eye dog?  No.  I get along fine with a cane.

Religion?  I go to MCC for the companionship, but I'm not really into it.  

Paranormal?  You believe in that nonsense?

Literature?  Dickens?  Stephen King?  I don't read a lot.

Um...politics?  Not really.

Music?

That got a rise out of him.  Oh, I love Cher, Madonna, Barbra Streisand...

Oh...I don't really listen to pop music.  It's so heterosexist, all about girl! girl! girl!

Rihanna, Gwen Stefani, Kelly Clarkson.

Any classical in that mix? A little Mozart here and there?

Jessica Simpson, Mariah Carey, Jennifer Lopez...

Opera? Jazz?  I'll even take show tunes...

Christina Aguilera, Carrie Underwood, Beyonce...

Ok, how about a male performer?  At least somebody for me to look at -- Justin Timberlake, maybe?

The Pussycat Dolls, Ciara, Fergie...

We didn't have a second date.

Dating an Amputee

Do you find this guy attractive primarily because of:
1. His face
2. His physique
3. His penis
4. His missing arm.

Most people find #4 neutral or even a turn-off, but for a surprising number, it's a big plus, making him infinitely more attractive than guys with four limbs.

The absence makes the whole body stand out in vivid detail, drawing our attention to every muscle.

The lack of symmetry brings a pleasant dissonance, like a minor chord in music.

We're not supposed to look, not supposed to notice; when looking is forbidden, it becomes erotic.

A fetish is a primary erotic interest in an object or part of the human body other than the sex organs.  Acrotomophilia, the amputee fetish, is all about the absence.

Most amputee fetishists prefer guys with a single missing limb, a leg or an arm.

Some prefer double missing limbs, two arms, two legs, or one of each.

A smaller but still significant number prefer four missing limbs.














They can be quite specific about how much of
the limb should be missing for optional erotic potential.

Whatever type of missing limb they find preferable, partners are hard to come by.

Although there are nearly 2 million amputees in the U.S., over half are elderly diabetics with a host of medical issues, probably not interested in erotic exploration.  Less than half have lost limbs due to accidents.





Another 100,000 people are born with limb loss or limb difference, due to a variety of genetic and prenatal factors.

It works out to about 50,000 gay adult men with missing limbs and no significant medical problems that would preclude dating.

With a combination of prosthetic limbs and innovative mobility techniques, amputees can do everything anyone else can do, including drive a car, swim, and lift weights.  There's a guy who goes to my gym who is missing most of an arm, yet has fully defined, symmetrical pecs and shoulders.

There have been very few amputees working in movies and on tv.  The sitcom My Name is Earl was remarkable in having two amputee characters:

Didi (Tracey Ashton), one of the people Earl had wronged ("stole the car of a one-legged girl).

Plus her boyfriend, played by Cameron Clapp, a triple-amputee athlete and motivational speaker (seen here surfing).

The Amputee Coalition offers support groups and assistance to help amputees and their families and friends live to the fullest.  One of its activities is the Paddy Rossbach Youth Camp, a traditional summer camp founded in 2000  that has served  790 children with limb loss and limb difference from the U.S., Britain, Australia, Mexico, and Tunisia.















How do amputees feel about fetishists, people who are intensely attracted to them because of missing or reduced limbs?

Some like the attention.  Anything that sets you apart from the crowd is a good thing, right?

Most dislike being objectified, reduced to only an amputee, just as guys dislike being sought after simply because they are Asian or black, or have large penises.  They want to be desired for their  face and physique, their eccentricities and quirks, their accomplishments, their intelligence, their sense of humor, and everything else that makes them unique.

A G-rated version of this article is on Boomer Beefcake and Bonding.

A Boy With Daddy Issues Rips My Clothes Off

Plains, May 2015

Ever since I wimped out on Raphael, the Gay Psychic Angel, who was perfect in every way except that his arms didn't work, I have felt guilty.  I should have called -- I would have called -- except I kept imagining becoming his boyfriend, and being responsible for helping him eat and dress and use the bathroom -- how shallow!

So I decided that if I ever had such an opportunity again, I would go for it without hesitation.

The opportunity came in, of all places, a comic book store on the Plains.

I always feel out of place amid the fanboys and fantasy gamers, self-conscious about my age more than anything, so I rush in, get what I need, and rush out again.  But on that Saturday afternoon in May 2015, there were two guys standing in front of the New Arrival rack.

One was a hefty, bearded bear in his 40s.  He was picking up titles and showing them to his friend, who was small, slim, in his 20s.

And had cerebral palsy.

Back in college, I dated Jimmy, the Bodybuilder on Crutches, but his cerebral palsy resulted only in some stiffness, so he had to use crutches to get around, and some motor actions were difficult.

This guy had spastic movements (uncontrollable spasms in his arms), spasticity in his hands (they bent back), and gait disturbance (one leg dragged behind).

He turned and smiled at me. "We're almost done."

Slurred speech, too.

"Oh, don't worry.  Take your time."

He continued to smile.  The cruise was unmistakable.

I should say something else.  "Um...I heard that IDW is coming out with a new Donald Duck title.  Funny how Disney titles never last."

"Well, you know fanboys are fickle. My name is Andy."

"Boomer.  Pleased to meet you."

He swung his body to stretch out his curled, curved hand.  I took it and squeezed.  For some reason, I was surprised that it was warm.


By now his friend was staring at me suspiciously.  "This is my warden," Andy said in his slurred speech. "His job is to make sure I never have any fun."

"Roy -- Andy's Dad,"  he grunted.  "The one with the car."

Ok, I was being cruised by a guy who was thirty years younger than me, with spastic movements that kind of freaked me out, in a comic book store, in front of his father.

Time to seal the deal!

"Have you had lunch yet?  There's a pretty good Chinese place down the street that I like."

"We're going for pizza," Andy countered.  "You should come."

Roy grunted disapprovingly.  In retrospect, it must have seemed odd to watch his son pick up a strange guy twice his age.  Or did Andy do this all the time?

We had barbecue chicken pizza and garlic knots, while Andy's "spastic movements" kept rubbing his leg against mine.  I couldn't tell if Roy knew that his son was cruising me,  but it was obvious that he kept strict control over Andy's friends.  You had to prove yourself.

Turns out that Andy and I didn't have a lot in common.  He liked sports -- especially baseball -- and zombie movies and tv programs like The Walking Dead.

And he lacked most of the traits that I find attractive -- he was shorter than me, but slim, pale-skinned, and not religious.  I didn't get a chance to check on his beneath-the-belt gifts.

I was tempted to let the relationship slide,but then I thought of the Psychic Angel.  No way -- we were going forward, as far as Andy wanted!

Apparently I proved myself to Roy, as I got permission to solo with Andy the next day: a baseball game -- yawn -- then back to my apartment to kiss on the couch.

"I always liked older guys," Andy whispered, groping me with his curved hand.  "You're always so big!"

"It doesn't really get bigger as you get older."

"Ok, I guess I have Daddy issues, then."

"Well, your father is rather hot."

"Oh, I fantasize about him sometimes -- is that sick?  I want to tie him up and spank him.  You know, be the one in charge."

I could see where this was heading! "Sorry, I'm not really into that."  Andy probably couldn't tie ropes well, anyway.

"Ok, so...maybe I could like just tear your clothes off before we do it?  That would be erotic."

"Um...sure, I guess."

I put on an old t-shirt and jeans, and we went into the bedroom.  But old clothes are quite tough, apparently, and Andy's spastic hand movements couldn't get them to rip. I had to start the process with scissors.

The erotic activity that followed was a little disappointing.  Andy had a Bratwurst, very thick, with a foreskin that wouldn't retract -- but he was only into backside activity -- and a top.

I let him top me, but he worked so fast that I barely noticed.

Then I drove him home.

"This was fun," he said.  "Sometime you should meet my boyfriend.  He'd like you, too."

Boyfriend?  Wait -- I thought that Andy was a lonely shut-in who never got asked out, that I was doing him a favor by dating him.  "Is he an older guy?"

"Oh, no, he's in college.  All the college boys want to date me, but hardly ever anyone older.  But  older guys are fun -- they're always so grateful!   Well, bye!"

Wait -- was Andy doing me a favor?

See also Gay Psychic Angel; Cruised by my Mentally Disabled Neighbor

Wearing a Gay Pride T-Shirt in Public, on the Plains

Plains, October 2016

Unless I'm in a gay neighborhood, I'm never out in public.  No gay pride t-shirts, no lambdas, no pink triangles, no rainbow flags.  No holding hands with my date.  My book on a gay topic is turned inward so no one can read the title.

Being Out and Proud is fine, but I've heard too many stories about gay people getting assaulted and killed by random bigots.  Even if only one passerby in a thousand is inclined to kill you and has a gun in his pocket, that's too many for me.

But yesterday when I got to the gym, I discovered that I brought along a Gay Pride t-shirt by mistake.  A very open one, with literally the words "Gay Pride!!!" in big rainbow letters.

I didn't want to drive all the way home to get another one, or spend $15 on one of the gym's t-shirts that are completely covered with banal "keep moving" slogans.

So for the next 1 1/2 hours, I was going to be out in public.  In a small town in the Straight World.

It was my running day.  Was assault more likely on the treadmill or out on the wilderness trail?

I opted for the trail.  People see you for only a few seconds as they jog past in the other direction, but on the treadmill, they can get a good a good view for an hour.  Besides, it would probably be empty.  Who runs at 5:00 pm on a Sunday afternoon?


The Lobby

To get out of the gym, I have pass about a dozen people in the lobby, including two Somali women in hijabs, and a group of high school jocks.

They don't seem to notice, but Casey, who is running the front desk, does.

He isn't the usual collegiate twink the gym hires: he's in his 30s, buffed, with severely short black hair, a round face, and the hint of a hairy chest beneath his white shirt.  I'm thinking manager, filling in for a sick desk guy.

They're supposed to say "Hi" on your way in and "Have a nice day" on your way out, but instead Casey asks  "Going for a run?"

"Yeah, I thought I'd hit the wilderness trail.  It will be covered with snow soon."

"Well, be careful out there," he says with a frown.  "There are...um...well, this is snake season."

I think he means "homophobe season."


The Trail

As it turns out, the wilderness trail is busy.  I constantly encounter joggers going in the other direction, on their way back t the gym.

On the Plains, you're supposed to say hello or wave to those you encounter on the street or wilderness trail -- a very hard habit to break when you're jogging somewhere else.

Usually it's about 70% "hellos" or waves, 20% Attitude (they pretend not to see you), and 10% hostile stares. .

With my Gay Pride T-Shirt on, I estimate about 25% "hellos" or waves," 50% Attitude, and 25% hostile stares.



Men are most likely to give Attitude; women most likely to either say "hello" or give a hostile stare.

Teenagers and kids usually smile.

The older people start with smiles, but when they get close enough to read my "Gay Pride!!!!", the smiles turn into hostile stares.

Usually when you encounter  a male-female couple jogging together, the man says "hello," the woman gives Attitude -- presumably she doesn't want to be accused of flirting.  But today in my Gay Pride T-Shirt, it is the opposite: the woman says "hello," the man gives Attitude.

Presumably he doesn't want to be accused of flirting.

 The "hellos" and waves seem bigger and broader, even congratulatory, and the hostile stares considerably more hostile, grim and menacing.  But that might just be my imagination.

Verdict: most heterosexuals on the Plains are surprised to discover that a gay person lives among them.

At least no one yells at me or starts quoting Leviticus.

Back at the Gym

I run five miles in 50 minutes, not a great time, but a good solid 6 mph, then return to the gym.

Casey is still at the front desk. "How was your run?"

"Great! I saw a deer about three miles in, and almost stepped on a garter snake."

"That sounds scary!"

"Not as scary as some of the other joggers."

"Well, this is the Plains, after all."  He laughed.  "Need a towel?"

"No, thanks."  The gym doesn't give out towels -- you have to subscribe to a towel service for $10 extra per month.  I bring my own.

"On the house."  He passes a towel at me.  "If you need any help stretching or anything, let me know."

Casey is definitely going out of his way to indicate that he is a gay ally -- or gay himself.


The Locker Room

I have to use the urinal and the drinking fountain, so I walk through the locker room in my Gay Pride T-Shirt.

This is fun.  Not Attitude so much as deer-in-the-headlights stares as guys read my t-shirt and turn away.  Wouldn't want the gay guy to get ideas!

There's a twink in a wheelchair who always works out in the late afternoon, taking forever: 20 minutes on the incline press machine, never moving or letting someone else squeeze in between sets.  Then an older guy, his father or brother or boyfriend, helps him shower and dress.  Right now the twink is naked in the wheelchair, his uncut Bratwurst hanging out.  He reads my t-shirt and smiles.  His father or brother or boyfriend quickly grabs a towel and covers him.

I'm tired of these epater le bourgeois  antics.  I shower, change clothes, and head back upstairs to see what Casey is up to.

Three Unscreened Hookups on the Same Night

Plains, September 2016

You're probably wondering why I've been posting so many bereavement stories.  This was a bad summer for people I know getting sick and passing away.  Other guys eat when they're upset.  I hook up.

So earlier this week I got on Grindr, put up a photo of my chest, said "Free tonight," and specified in my profile "Kissing, cuddling, and oral essential."

I was not in the mood to screen them carefully -- I just wanted someone in my bed to kiss and cuddle with.  So I did minimal screening, not worrying about age or size, rejecting only the downlow, 420-friendly (marijuana smokers), and "top me, Daddy!"  After that, the first three guys who asked got an invitation, scheduled at 6:00, 7:00, and 8:00 pm.

6:00:. Jarhead, age 28., buffed, hairy chest, hung to his knees, totally into kissing, cuddling, and oral.  

Jarheads are Marines, right?

He wasn't a Marine, and he wasn't 28 -- more like 68-- a chubby, hairy Grandpa.

Nothing wrong with a Grandpa, but why would you knock 40 years off your profile?  What if the guy you meets is not into older?

Turns out when he said he was into kissing, he just meant kissing on the body, not kissing on the mouth.  What kind of grade school dissimulation is that?  I sent him on his way.

7:00: Mike, age 25, tall, black, muscular, 8", totally into kissing and cuddling and oral.  

Well, he was tall and black, and in his 20s.  But very husky, even fat, not muscular at all.  With a gross nose ring.

And not into kissing and cuddling.  He wanted a blow-and-go.

What the heck -- he had a nice sized penis, a very thick 6" (everybody adds an inch), and I hadn't been with a black guy for awhile.

So I went down on him while he was sitting on a chair in my living room.  He forcibly pushed my head down onto his penis to take his load, and then said "thanks" and left.







8:00: Romeo, age 28, hairy, bearded, Hispanic, 8", totally into kissing and oral.

Guys push their age up in online profiles, too -- Romeo was only about 21, with a tiny bit of chest hair and a sparse beard.  Average sized uncut penis.

Not into kissing, yet again!  He wanted me to top him.  I refused.  He asked to top me.  I refused.

"What about oral?"  I asked.

He wouldn't go down on me, but he grudgingly consented to let me go down on him.

And down.  And down.  And down.

My jaw got tired after about twenty minutes, and I asked him to finish himself.   After twenty more minutes, he conceded that it wasn't happening.  "I'm really just into anal," he admitted on his way out.


9:00: I showered, changed clothes, and went down the hall to knock on the door of my mentally disabled neighbor, Timmy, who I had a date with last month.

"Hi, Boomer!" he said.  "I'm watching tv."

"What program?"

"Austin and Ally.  It has singing."  A Disney channel teencom.

"Can I watch with you?  We can cuddle and kiss."

At least I knew that Timmy was into kissing.  And underwear stuff.

See: Don't Be Nervous: My Date with My Mentally Disabled Neighbor

Jester, the Blind Boy with the 12" Penis

San Bernardino, June 1997

My friend David and I have driven down from San Francisco to visit West Hollywood, and now we're spending the weekend with Fred in San Bernardino.  He recently broke up with Matt, his partner of ten years, and lost his ministerial job in Fresno.  I want to make sure he's doing ok.

I asked Matt to come, but he refused.  Not just yet.  But they'll get together soon.  In gay communities, exes almost always stay friends.  Often they become your closest friends.  And, when you visit, they always invite you back into their bed.

I'm looking forward to it.  Fred was my first boyfriend, too, and there's always been something warm and comforting about sharing an ex-boyfriend's bed again.

When we arrive at Fred's apartment near Meadowbrook Park in San Bernardino, a Cute Young Thing answers the door.

"Hi, I'm Cody.  Fred is busy cooking, but he'll be out in a minute."

We stammer our introductions.  We didn't expect Fred to have a new boyfriend so soon after the breakup.  And especially a Cute Young Thing: about 20, short and slim with slicked-back blond hair, wearing a red muscle shirt, cut-off jeans with a decided bulge, and no shoes. A bit fragile and fey for my tastes, wearing three rings, one ostentatiously big.  Reeking of cologne.

Fred likes his guys pretty and girlish.  I don't.

We drop our bags in the foyer, say "hello" to Fred, puttering over some kind of pasta salad in the kitchen, and sit down in the living room.  Cody brings us sodas, and iced tea for himself.

Cody in the picture makes getting into Fred's bed a problem.  Fred and Cody couldn't invite both of us to "share": sharing is for three only.  Nor would they invite one and leave the other alone in the guest room, listening to the sounds of sex, lonely and upset.  The only solution is to not share at all.

David and I glance at each other with weak smiles, both thinking the same thing: I've been with this guy before.  He's hot and everything, but I came here planning to sleep with Fred.

We think of a solution at the same time: if one of us hooks up tonight, then the other will be free to be invited into Fred and Cody's bed.

When Fred comes out into the living room, David asks, "So, Fred, what do you have planned for us to do tonight?  A cruise bar, I hope.  Boomer and I are hot for some Inner Empire studmuffins."

"Maybe tomorrow night.  Tonight we have a dinner party planned.  The other guys will be here in a few minutes."

A party?  Even better.  West Hollywood Parties always end with guys pairing off and hitting the bedrooms.  I could share with Fred and Cody, and David could find someone else.

I've met two of the guys before -- Jerome and Mark, older, sagging, not very impressive.  I'd rather sleep alone.

But the third! Jester ("not my real name -- I got it when I came out").  In his 20s, tall, tanned, heavily muscled, with black hair, a round face, and a bright smile.  Blind -- he came in on Jerome's arm, but after that found his way around the apartment with no help.

I nudge David and whisper "How about if we share Jester tonight, and leave Fred and Cody to themselves?"

"Agreed."

Over vegetarian Greek pasta salad, fresh bread, red beets, and cabbage, we have our usual conversations about movies, tv, homophobic coworkers, celebrity hookups, and dates from hell.  Cody tells his coming out story.  Then David  turns to Jester.

"And now the Jester.  I love that nickname!  How did you ever come up with it?"

"Let someone else tell their story," Jester says.  "Mine is really long and boring."

"Come on, don't be shy," David says.  "It can't be as long as Boomer's penis."

Everyone laughs.

"David should know," I say.  "He goes down on me as often as I can talk him into it.  His skill in that area is legendary."

Hardly proper dinner conversation, but we are trying to incite Jester's interest any way we can, without him being able to see or touch us.

Jester still refuses to tell his coming out story.

After dinner we retreat to the living room for dessert and party games.  David and I try to jostle for a position next to Jester, but he sits between Jerome and Cody.

Our main game is "guess the penis," which requires you to stand in a row behind a bench, your penis on display, while a guy who is blindfolded tries to decide who belongs to which just by fondling it (use your hands, not your mouth).

When it's my turn, I guess Fred and David well enough, but the gigantic Kovbasa++, six inches soft?  Your penis shrinks as you age -- it must belong to Cody or Jester.

"Jester!" I exclaim.

"Right!" he says.  "Hardly anybody gets that about me.  They think because you're blind, you must be small."

"Oh, I don't think you're small in any way" I say, stroking him a bit before moving on to the next guy.

Now I really want to spend the night with Jester.  I corner him in the kitchen, put my hand on his shoulder, and ask "Do you need a ride home?"

"No,  thanks.  I...."

Suddenly David is there, putting his arm around Jester.  "So you're the guy with the footlong, an inch or so bigger than Boomer.  Has he been giving you tips on how to fend off the size queens?  Like me, for example?"  He cups Jester's crotch.

"Down, boys," Jester says with a grin, moving his hand away.  "You'll have to ask my boyfriend before squeezing the merchandise."

His boyfriend?  Who...he arrived on Jerome's arm -- he must be dating Jerome!

Surprised and embarrassed, we return to the living room.  Jerome and Mark are just putting their raincoats on to say goodnight.  No doubt Jester will be following them.

But he doesn't.

What's going on?  Maybe Jester is Fred and Cody's roommate?  Then where's his boyfriend?

"Well, I guess we'll go to bed, too," David says.  "It was a long drive down here."

"We still have to discuss the sleeping arrangements," Fred says.  "If you guys want to be in the same bed, you can have Cody's room.  Otherwise one of you can sleep with Cody, and the other with Jester and me."

I stare, open mouthed.  Jester is the boyfriend, and Cody the roommate!

Questions flood my mind. Why does Fred have a roommate, when he never did in 10 years of living with Matt?  Why didn't he let on that Jester was his boyfriend, and Cody his roommate?

"Dibs on Fred and Jester!" David calls.  He nudges me.  "You snooze, you lose, buddy."

Cody smiles at me.  "Which side of the bed do you want?"

On the bright side, Cody was a great kisser, and had a constantly-aroused Bratwurst.  I went down on him twice.

Jester's story continues in The White Knight and the Jester

See also: The Substitute for Sharing; My Sausage List ; and 12 Disabled Dates

12 Disabled Dates and Handicapped Hookups

20% of the population has a disability.  10% has a severe disability, requiring special aids to engage in everyday activities.

10% is a lot.   If you hookup once a week, you'll be going down on five disabled guys in a year.  If you have 10 boyfriends during the course of your life, one of them will probably be disabled.

Most disabled guys don't want to be fetishized, felt sorry for, or complimented on how bravely they have overcome adversity.  They just want to have the things everybody else has: a job, an apartment, friends, boyfriends, and erotic exploration.

Here are 12 disabled dates and handicapped hookups, plus a couple of sausage sightings.











1. Danny from third grade, who I pushed my way into a friendship with in third grade, wore a leg brace.  I ran into him in high school, and was invited to a sleepover at his house.  Nice sausage sighting.

2. Mark, a paraplegic due to a diving accident, was in some of my classes at Augustana.  Nice upper body.














3. Jimmy, the Bodybuilder on Crutches.  When I was in grad school in Bloomington, I started dating Jimmy, a grad student in social work who had cerebral palsy: he had to use crutches to get around, giving him an amazing bodybuilder's physique with 0% body fat.

4. Mario, a very cute deaf leatherman used to be a regular at the Faultline in West Hollywood.  Lane and I had him over for a three-way.

5. Jester, The Blind Guy with the Kovbasa+, who Fred dated after he broke up with Matt.  As a teenager, he tried to commit suicide by shooting himself, but ended up blind instead.

6. Ramon, who had a missing right arm, asked me to go ice skating with him in New York.  I had never been ice skating before.
















7. Raphael, Gay Psychic Angel.  In Florida in 2002, an angel showed up at my door to discuss New Age religions.  He did a psychic reading, we kissed, and he gave me his telephone number, but I chickened out.  His arms didn't work; they hung loosely at his side.

8. Ethan, the Boy in the Wheelchair, who I met in Dayton in 2005.  He wanted an S&M scene, which involved tying his hands behind his back and his non-working legs together.

9. Tommy in Dayton.  Another blind guy I dated, who said he could tell someone's penis size by listening to them urinate.  Or you could just feel your way.

10. Andy, who I met at a comic book store on the Plains in 2015, had more severe cerebral palsy than Jimmy: slurred speech, spastic movements.  He had a Daddy fetish, and wanted to rip my clothes off -- not very easy when your hands don't work well.

11. Robert, who I met on the Plains in 2015.  He was deaf but could lip-read, and wanted a S&M scene.  No blindfold, of course.

12. My Mentally Disabled Neighbor, who took me on a date to see Kansas, and then back to his apartment for the "underwear" stuff.